


To Be Bound

by weepingwisteria



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Flowery Prose, M/M, Vaguely incestuous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-22
Updated: 2014-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-26 02:26:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1671290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weepingwisteria/pseuds/weepingwisteria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Enjolras and Grantaire are cousins, and then become step-brothers, because really, things just weren't complicated enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Be Bound

**Author's Note:**

> A short history of this fic: This was my very first Les Mis fic, back in 2006. I no longer remember why I thought this story would be a good idea. A year or so later I completely rewrote it in a huff. Then I rewrote it again, for the third and absolute final time.. until I revisited it recently and could not stop myself from editing it again. Secretly I suspect this is because it's just not that great, but apparently I can't let it go, so here we are again. If nothing else, I can continue to take credit for making blue-eyed Grantaire a thing six years before the film.

 

They had looked so alike in their earliest youth. How lovely it was to see them running through the woods, laughing; anyone might have taken them for brothers. As they grew older the resemblance grew more dim, as it often happens. Perhaps they had similar features, but there seemed to have been a mistake in the distribution; for all that was charming in one became a defect in the other. There remained just one point of astonishing likeness between the two: it was in their eyes, a blue that was nearly grey, like dusk filtered through a frosted pane.

Even so, only one pair was adorned with stars.

One boy received his blue eyes from his mother; the other from his father. She had come first, winking in blank astonishment at the winter air, and he followed within the hour, even tinier than his sister, shrieking from the beginning and all through the night.

Years passed, not a series of events but a long happy summer of green and gold, the infants growing into children, always competing for height. At length she became a woman, and he a man. One summer she was married and became Madame Enjolras. At the wedding, her brother met the gentle ruddy-cheeked girl who became his wife.

Soon their own children played together, two charming little boys springing through the garden as four parents sat gossiping nearby. Soon two promising young men were sent off to study in the capital while four parents sighed and dabbed their tears and wondered where the years had gone.

As for the twins, their story had a simple, graceful end: the woman's delicate life fled away, and it hardly took long for her brother to follow her. They left behind a grave widower and a gentle ruddy-cheeked widow, who still drank chocolate together, though not as often, and talked about their boys, and worried when neither wrote home for months at a time.

Nothing remained to bind the two boys, save their uneasy blue eyes.

• • •

Of course Grantaire would attend his own mother's wedding, but it was still jarring to see him there, at first. They had managed to organise their travel entirely separate from one another; indeed, they had not exchanged a word about the whole affair, nothing but a brief, gloomy look that said, yes, the letter, I got one too. How bizarre to see him now, chatting with the other guests, clean-shaven and to all appearances sober. Enjolras smiled tensely at him from across the lawn, the smile of a distant and long-forgotten acquaintance, as if it had been more than four days since they’d last seen each other. Grantaire nodded in return.

"You’re not listening to me, are you? I can always tell when you’re not," his aunt scolded, swatting his arm. Enjolras clenched his jaw and fought the urge to swat her back. "I said I wanted to hear all about Paris, and I meant it.” She paused, followed Enjolras’s gaze, and gasped. “Oh, it’s – no, don’t tell me – could that be little Jules? Is it? Why, I hardly recognised him. But you must see him quite often in Paris?"

"We're both very busy with our studies, Madame," Enjolras lied.

"How many times must I remind you? I’m your auntie, and that’s what you must call me! Now, what was I saying? Just look at poor Jules-Marie! Hasn’t he been eating?"

"I wouldn't know, Auntie,” he answered coolly.

His aunt shook her head sadly. "What do they feed you boys up there in the city, anyway? I expect you’re out all night at balls and cabarets and – and – don’t think I don’t know how it is. I was there for a season myself, back when Louis XVIII was king. Poor little Jules, he's skin and bones! Of course, his poor father was ever the same, God rest his soul." She clucked her tongue. Enjolras suppressed a shudder.

"There’s nothing wrong with the food in Paris, Auntie.” (Except that it’s kept from the tables of those who most deserve it.) “You were telling me, were you not, about an excellent restaurant you used to visit near the Palais-Royale...?" He hoped he was right; he hadn’t been listening very closely. She looked a bit flustered.

"Well, you know, Paris is Paris. Let them do as they please. I’d rather have a simple country meal any day." Enjolras idly estimated the number of servants required to prepare one of her simple country meals. Then he frowned. His attempt to turn the conversation had failed. The aunt began to crane her neck, peering into the crowd. "I remember the two of you as children, playing together in this very house, just like brothers."

"We were never that close," Enjolras said.

The aunt smiled broadly. “Does it matter? You are brothers, from today. It’s only right, don’t you think?”

This time, Enjolras could not suppress the cold feeling darting up his back.

Across the lawn, Grantaire plucked up another glass of champagne and raised it to him in silent salute.

• • •

The party danced late into the evening, and on toward the dawn. Grantaire tripped across the floor with all the dejected young women whom Enjolras had politely refused.

• • •

And yet, weary as he was, Grantaire could not lie still that night, knowing who slept just beyond the wall. He could still recall the two of them as very small boys, sharing a pillow. Then, once they had grown too big for that, they would throw the bedcovers onto the floor and cocoon themselves in for the night – when the thought of being without a bed was still a fantastic novelty. Tonight, he could scarcely believe they were under the same roof. Ah, but things had changed.

He thought back to another evening, some weeks past, the freshest fantasy of his sleepless nights. He had fallen asleep – had regained consciousness crudely in the back room of the café at an appalling hour of morning – this not unusual in itself – but something was different. He could hear another person’s shallow breathing across the room. It was pitch dark – there were no windows – but he was certain it was Enjolras who had fallen asleep there. Grantaire lay still and listened for a long, long time, all the while entertaining tender thoughts of draping his coat over the sleeping boy’s shoulders, or putting his forgotten papers in order, or lighting a candle and gazing at him till morning. But he dared not move and break the scene; and when he woke again, the sun had risen and Enjolras was gone.

The more he revisited this memory, the more he doubted it had really happened, but it was sweet nevertheless.

At last, his feverish pacing led him into the hall: he stopped at the next door to his left.

His soul was beyond that door, stuck behind the cold whitewashed panel where he couldn’t reach it. He was beyond that door, sleeping, dreaming wonderful dreams that Grantaire could scarcely imagine. Or perhaps he didn’t dream, for he did enough of that when he was awake. Perhaps he wasn’t even asleep. Yes, that seemed more likely. No doubt he was squinting against the candlelight, poring over a disintegrating legal memoir, or diligently composing some discourse that had come to him during the party. Moved by an onslaught of sentiment, Grantaire swept forward and pressed his lips against the door. He first tried to whisper a line of verse that had slipped from his mind, and then he grasped for a prayer; but all he could manage was a name: Alexandre.

Had he been sleeping? It didn’t matter; now he was awake. Grantaire caught the faintest sound from the other side; the floorboards had always groaned in the summer, but Enjolras was graceful enough to tread them in near silence. The door clicked abruptly. For a moment it was only cracked open, and in a sliver of light Grantaire saw him, staring wide-eyed, wearing his nightclothes and clutching a pistol. Grantaire flinched. But in an instant the vision was gone, and the look of – fear? No, not fear, only caution – was dashed away, overtaken by irritation, mild disbelief.

"You! What in God’s name were you doing out there?"

"That room they put me in," Grantaire answered hoarsely, “It’s stifling. I can’t breathe. The windows are stuck.”

"You're drunk!"

"How very kind of you, pretending to be surprised," Grantaire said, smiling helplessly. “That’s quite the polite thing to do. You ought to be more careful, you wouldn’t want Polite Society to mistake you for one of their own. But now, as it happens, I’m not so bad. I’ve only had a bit tonight. A toast, let’s call it, a toast made in private. To the bride and groom. Bless monsieur Enjolras, may he live long and happy with his ugly widow!”

Enjolras put the pistol aside, but a dark look crossed his face.

“Oh, stop,” said Grantaire. “I know what you’re thinking. I know exactly how you feel about the whole affair. You might remember that you’re not the only one caught up in it.”

"Even for you, it isn’t right to speak that way about your own mother."

Grantaire scowled, propping himself against the door frame. “Well, she is ugly. She birthed me. Maybe she was prettier before that. All right, perhaps I am heartless. If so, it runs in our family. Tell me, what are you doing with that pistol? Did you expect to be attacked, here, under your father’s roof? Did you perhaps think he had invited the police, in case his miscreant son should attempt to discuss Robespierre over roast lamb?”

Enjolras did not answer, did not move at all for a moment, apparently gauging the situation. At last, with an air of exhaustion, he stepped aside, allowing the intruder to enter. Grantaire crossed the threshold gingerly.

"I’m sure you wouldn’t understand. You’ll only mock me. But I don’t like it," Enjolras admitted, cringing, sitting on the edge of his bed. "The two of them being married. It isn’t decent."

"Ah, so that's it?" Grantaire teetered uncertainly in the centre of the room. "That's why you've been so gloomy all day? All this for decency?"

"I've been the same as ever," Enjolras said sharply.

"Oh, yes, you're quite as artificial as you always are at these family events." He ran a hand through his hair, clean but no longer neat. "Ah, but I know you better than that!"

"Perhaps you know a bit about me, yes, but that hardly amounts to the same thing."

"And I know you wouldn’t dream of seeking my advice, but I feel I should tell you, since, as you say, I know a bit about you – which is still more than anyone else can claim. You would be far better off accepting our parents’ marriage for what it is. It’s done now."

Enjolras rose swiftly, angrily.

"I don’t know how it happened, but they do seem to love one another,” Grantaire continued. “Well, so much the better for them. Why shouldn’t they be married? It’s done."

"Never speak to me of things you don’t believe in." Enjolras was very pale now; in another setting Grantaire might have found it comical. "Get out. Go."

Grantaire ran through a hundred clever retorts, but he could not grasp one long enough to utter it. Instead he murmured something unintelligible and turned his face away, stumbling through the door which adjoined to his bedchamber.

• • •

"Taking breakfast without the family this morning?"

Enjolras nearly dropped his book. From the look on his face, his bread might have been laced with quinine. Grantaire leaned against the garden gate, slightly unsteady, but struggling valiantly to look well.

"No one else is awake," Enjolras said curtly.

Grantaire shrugged and sat down beside the rose bush. He’d torn his trouser leg on it as a child. He distinctly remembered feeling hurt; no one had warned him that flowers could bite. He pinched a blossom between two fingers and pulled it close to his face, careful not to snap it from its stem. "They're blooming late this year," he commented, and let it go. It bowed and trembled, watering him with dewdrops before settled back into place. Enjolras didn’t answer. Of course, Grantaire didn’t assume he had been listening.

"Alexandre.”

Enjolras clapped his book shut. The strip of cotton that had been marking his place slid out and fluttered to the ground. "Enjolras,” he corrected.

"It seems rather impractical to call you that, so long as we’re on the Enjolras estate – seeing as you’re not the only one here, nor the eldest."

"I won’t become confused," Enjolras said.

"Not," Grantaire continued, unaffected, "that it’s a bad thing, being here. Not at all. I just don’t like to be impractical.” He smirked at himself, knowing that Enjolras would not. “Anyway, I suppose you’ll call me what you will. At least I’m the only Grantaire here – by name."

"I know very well who my mother was," Enjolras said quietly.

“Did it occur to you I was speaking of my own mother? Yesterday she was Madame Grantaire; today she is Madame Enjolras. The same transformation your mother made, thirty years ago. I wish I could change so easily! But I must admit I’ve wondered: what do you think our friends in Paris would say if they knew? Do you think they’d try to point out resemblances between us? They’d have a hard time of it. I suppose they could say, well, you both have blue eyes, and Grantaire, if you gained twenty pounds, and a great deal of height, and perhaps if you unbroke your nose…”

"It makes me sick to think she’s been forgotten."

"Forgotten! I remember your mother as if she were my own. She was a good woman – really, one of the few good women I’ve known. How could I ever forget?"

Enjolras softened, disarmed. "Yes," he agreed, "she was."

"And my father was a fine man. Do you remember the day he took us fishing by the brook?"

"No,” Enjolras answered.

"We were rubbish at it, anyway. The only thing we managed to catch was a little crayfish. I was frightened by it, I was sure it would pinch me, but you held it so it couldn't escape. It was wriggling around in your tiny palm and all the while you were absolutely unmoved, looking at it the same way you might have looked at–" Grantaire broke off, peering at his cousin almost shyly. “–the way you’re looking at me now.” He crawled to the foot of the bench where Enjolras sat. "Everything was lovely then, wasn't it?" he asked distantly.

If Grantaire had dared to lift his eyes, he might have seen pain cross the other man’s face. But he dared not; he stared fixedly at the patch of grass around Enjolras’s boots. Blindly, Grantaire groped for his hand and wrapped it in his skeletal fingers. Enjolras recoiled at the contact, then fell slack.

“But what does it matter? You won’t speak to me,” said Grantaire.

"What would you have me say?"

"I can’t tell you. It wouldn’t matter what you said, as long as you meant it sincerely."

They sat in silence. Grantaire felt tremors running sporadically through Enjolras’s hand. Each tremor filled him with horror. But that was unfair; he should not begrudge Enjolras his few imperfections.

At length, Enjolras spoke, tentatively. “Are you really so struck by all of this?”

“The wedding? Our parents?” Enjolras nodded, though Grantaire was still looking down. He shrugged. “To be honest, no. I don’t mind so much.”

Enjolras stiffened and nearly flung himself from his seat in exasperation. “Then what is it?” he pressed.

Grantaire looked up at last. "You want me to tell you?" he asked.

“I asked, didn’t I?”

Grantaire did not answer. He rose from the ground, and took flight: through the charming little garden, across the lawn, past the edge of the woods and farther along; and Enjolras, though he could not imagine why, pursued him, and knew exactly where they would land.

"Will you tell me at last?" asked Enjolras, trying to catch his breath. Grantaire laughed giddily, although he was wheezing and red in the face. In the back of his mind, Enjolras wondered whether he was still drunk.

"Yes, that’s right. You wanted to know, and I can tell you now." He looked up at the treetops. "It’s you."

Enjolras froze, forgetting to be short of breath. "What?"

"Now it’s my turn. Do you remember what I asked you? We were speaking of love – if two people are in love, I asked, or I wanted to ask, why shouldn’t they be happy together?"

“No. I think you owe me a better explanation than that.”

“I don’t think I do. You asked, and I answered.”

“Lord knows I never thought I’d ask this, but haven’t you got anything more say?”

It was probably not meant as a joke, but Grantaire laughed. He laughed and he pressed the joint of his thumb against his teeth. And when he’d finished laughing, he slid onto his tiptoes and kissed his brother on the mouth, gently, as if he were handling a champagne flute or a rose stem, or a lover.

Then he fell back on his heels. He was, for the first time, utterly shaken. His mouth was slack; it wasn’t clear whether he was trying to form an apology or merely grasp what he had done, but he did not move.

Enjolras scrutinised him. “Oh,” he said, and that was all. And Grantaire did not move, could not move, until Enjolras reached out his hands and ran them across his sallow face, and pushed him away.

• • •

Paris again. Chair legs scraping the floor, earthenware plates being knocked about, all of it so comfortable, so familiar it could have been a lullaby. Combeferre was murmuring something dreadfully grave, and Courfeyrac was beaming back at him; Jean Prouvaire was melancholy, but really, that was when he was happiest.

"I knew the rose was sickly when I bought it, but how could I refuse, when the seller was such a pretty young rose herself? It was worth it to see the glow of gratitude on her face. All the same, it’s sad to see it failing before it ever bloomed. But I suppose it was only a dream, to think that I could coax a rose to grow here, of all places."

Grantaire smirked in recognition, never looking up from the line he was pressing with his thumbnail into the grain of the table. "I suppose you were,” he agreed. “How could a poor little flower stand a chance in this city? Look what it does to people!” He jerked his hand back and began to suck on a splinter. “Mind you, I said people – not the people, so no need to get up in arms. A rose bush in a shadowy garrett,” he murmured, “there’s something in that, if I were at all poetical.”

“But do cheer up,” said Joly, patting Prouvaire’s hand. “There will be other roses.”

“Yes, though next time I’d try coaxing one that’s already blossomed.” Grantaire grinned salaciously, lest his rather weak innuendo go unnoticed.

Enjolras watched with an air of vague irritation, saying nothing. And yet, nearly two hours later he turned to Prouvaire, suddenly resuming his train of thought. “You might give it more time,” he said, conversationally. “I’ve heard roses are blooming late this year.” Then he gathered his papers into a neat pile, stood up, and crossed the room. Grantaire stared at him sweetly as he passed. Solemn, Enjolras removed a pamphlet from the top of the stack and pinned it to the wall. “Brothers in arms,” he began, “see how the agents of counter-revolution seek to poison our minds –”


End file.
